a piece of 3

Cymbals whisper with brushes
and the sticks crackle
His arms rise and fall in licks
on the shore of sound

The skins brood the air rushes
into ears forming
His feet kick and stomp the stretches
Up there and deep down

Strings rumble from below
in the deepest quake
His fingers pick and strike the root
of the foundation

The frets run wild with intent
birthing harmony
His hands move loose with precision
the groove sits easy

Open and wide the mouth utters
a beauteous blare
His strong lips purse and blow the song
from the beginning

Eyes closed in sung concentration
the tune is summoned
His body gives and blood flows
the note reaches home

and the lights come on

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